


blackout and the high school dance debacle

by greyhavensking



Series: the misadventures of blackout and her found family trope [4]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Anxiety, Awkward Crush, Both is good, Excessive Cursing, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Light Angst, Matt Murdock is a little shit, Michelle Jones is a Little Shit, Not Spider-Man: Homecoming Compliant, Original Female Character Needs a Drink, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Precious Peter Parker, School Dances, it's cute I swear, michaela is not creepy in this fic, or Both, or a hug, or at least not that i'm aware of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 13:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22456918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyhavensking/pseuds/greyhavensking
Summary: Peter asks an awkward (yet precious) question and Michaela is, as usual, a human disaster.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Original Female Character(s), Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker & Original Character(s), Peter Parker & Original Character(s)
Series: the misadventures of blackout and her found family trope [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602505
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	blackout and the high school dance debacle

Peter starts coming around Hell’s Kitchen often once the radioactive cat’s out of the bag. Michaela puts her foot down at first, channeling every ounce of mom energy she’s picked up over the years, but in then end the kid’s puppy dog eyes wear her down. Which Matt enjoys reminding her of every chance he gets, because she’d claimed to be _above that_ months ago. What a fool she’d been, how naïve. Steve Rogers could probably talk her into taking a swan dive off the Empire State Building, but Peter Parker could pout her into committing murder.

Such power he wields, and she’s not even sure he’s realized it yet.

Or, well. He hadn’t been aware of it _before_.

“Peter?”

Michaela twists around, glancing behind her as though she’ll spot a hidden camera, or at least a pretty-boy host with overly gelled hair, just. _Something_ that’ll write this as off as the product of some sort of prank show. But no, when she turns back, she’s alone in the apartment. Aside from Peter. Dangling _upside-down_ from the ceiling and decked out in his Spidey suit, sans mask.

He smiles when their eyes meet the second time, bright and earnest and all the boyish things that she shouldn’t be experiencing at approximately _too damn early_ in the morning.

“Mornin’, Michaela!”

She bites back the initial response that jumps up from her throat, the words probably a little too scathing and expletive-laden for someone she adores as much as she does Peter Parker. Also, she can be rude, but she figures cursing out a teenager when he’s beaming his little heart out at her is taking things a smidgeon too far. And if she’s going to keep from scarring this child for life, she’s going to need coffee. Strong coffee. All of it. The whole damn pot.

God, why couldn’t this have been a night Matt stayed over? His coffee wakes her right the fuck up, and she’s more or less convinced at this point that he’s so good at making it solely because he sold his soul to a demon or a faerie or. Something appropriately mythical. She’s content with that, frankly; she’d probably do the same if she knew how to summon one of the fucking things herself.

Michaela looks at Peter a moment more, squinting in the early morning light that slants in from the adjacent window, then rolls her eyes and waves him down from the ceiling while she shuffles into her kitchen. She’s working on auto-pilot at this point, grateful she at least had the forethought to prepare the coffee maker the night before; she’s vaguely aware of the light _thump_ of Peter’s landing, the near-silent padding of his footsteps as he dogs her into the kitchen, but it’s distant, on the fringes of her consciousness rather than the forefront. She blames it on the four hours of sleep she managed last night, otherwise she would be much, much less accommodating of his stealthy… stealth-ness.

She’s been scared shitless one too many times over the course of their friendship. It’s a miracle she hasn’t developed some sort of conditioned response to seeing him at this point. And that isn’t even bringing Matt and his ninja shenanigans into the equation!

Fuck ninjas.

But also no, because Matt, and she loves Matt, he might be the literal light of her life.

…really, though, fuck ninjas.

She’s getting off-track, here. Peter, Peter’s here and he’s here, presumably, for a reason. A valid one, she hopes, because it’s taking a considerable amount of energy for Michaela to maintain any semblance of being human this early in the morning and she’d like for that effort not to be in vain.

Coffee finally in hand, Michaela turns so that she can lean back against the counter, the warmth of the mug bleeding into her perpetually chilled fingers. She breathes in, savoring the sharp, bitter scent of the coffee, exhales slowly through her nose. Takes a sip. Then she flicks her eyes up to where Peter is standing awkwardly in the middle of her sparse kitchen, hands tucked under his arms, shoulders hitched up near his ears.

Aw, fuck. He’s nervous.

“Pete, kid, you’re killing me. Did your backpack get stolen again? ‘Cause I can cover it this time, I think, if you’re that worried about telling your aunt—”

“No!” he blurts out, eyes wide. Almost instantly he colors a pretty spectacular red, dark enough that she’s reminded of Matt’s suit. Michaela blinks, blatantly staring at him over the lip of her mug. He winces and rushes to add, “I mean, uh, no that’s not—not why I came over?” in an increasingly squeaky voice.

Michaela hums, noncommittal. Peter can get… overly excitable, yeah, but he’s a genuinely sweet guy. She wouldn’t expect him to break into her apartment at – she cuts her eyes to the clock on the microwave, grimacing behind her mug – _six-thirteen in the morning_ , not for something dumb. On a Thursday, at that. No, he’d drop by after school, or even just call her, send her a barrage of near-incomprehensible texts with strings of haphazardly placed emojis.

Huh. He should be in school, shouldn’t he? Or on his way there, anyway. It’s been a while since she kept to a high schooler’s schedule but, uh, yeah, it’s Thursday morning, there’s no holiday today that she’s aware of. Kid should be drooling into his desk, not trading hesitant, doe-eyed glances with her.

“Peter…” She trails off, watching him stiffen, wringing his hands. His smile is tremulous, barely there, and it’s hurting her heart to see it. “Are you in trouble? And is it teenager trouble or vigilante trouble, because like, I can maybe help with the first one, but you might want Matt for—”

That, strangely, has Peter flushing crimson, his cheeks and ears red, and he shakes his head, quick and jerky. Okay, no Matt, then. That’s—interesting. Despite the godawful hour, she’s starting to put the pieces together, and it’s shaping up to be a… troubling picture.

Confirmation comes in the form of Peter wrestling something out of the pocket of his spider-hoodie and then promptly shoving it at her. She fumbles to catch it, cursing under her breath when coffee sloshes over the side of the mug and onto her wrist – _that’s going to leave a fucking mark, fuck her life_ – and it’s a piece of paper? Computer paper, from the looks of it. She shakes it out, more mindful of the coffee now and hoping she hasn’t gotten any stray droplets on it. Michaela squints again, idly wondering if she should look into glasses or contacts, whatever would be more functional for her, then just. Does a legit double-take. And maybe stops breathing.

Oh. Oh, wow.

On the paper, in the most fanciful font Word has to offer, is:

_WILL YOU BE MY HOMECOMING PRINCESS?_

_Yes__ No___

Michaela can feel her cheeks burning, god, she’s fucking melting, forget about the burn on her wrist. She, she can’t stop staring at it. The font, the overwhelming pink of the lettering (the glasses are looking more and more promising, she’s practically going blind), the _check yes or no middle school drama of it all_.

_Or_ , she amends, the paper crinkling as her grip tightens reflexively, _the high school drama of it all._

Her mouth works silently for a moment, words just. Not coming. The gears in her brain have grinded to a halt, or, or she’s in system reboot, or. Fuck. The synapses are not firing. He’s… asking her to homecoming? To the dance. At his high school. He’s asking her to attend a high school function… with him. As in a date. Right? A date?

_Oh, no_.

Michaela blinks and looks up—

Peter’s holding out a plastic, glittery tiara. Complete with bright pink stick-on gemstones.

_Oh, fuck no_.

“Before you say anything!” Peter says, the words so rushed they’re tumbling over one another and she only just makes out what he’s saying through the haze of unadulterated shock she’s currently experiencing. “It’s, I know it’s—kind of _weird_ , okay, it’s weird. I’m, um.”

“…sixteen?” Michaela supplies faintly.

“Yes, that,” he says, glancing away and then right back at her. “It’s not. It’s not a _date_ ,” and he’s _laughing_ , aw shit, that pitiful kind of half-chuckle you do when you know what you’re saying is embarrassing as hell and also partially bull but you’re determined to power through regardless. Michaela mastered that chuckle during her own high school years. “I just, um, I thought, you know, you’re really awesome, Michaela, and. Cool. And pretty.”

He’s going red again, he looks like a damn fire truck, _is all the blood in his body rushing into his face?_

How does she even respond to this? He’s _sixteen_. There is a literal decade between them. When she was his age, he was six. Six! And, somewhat less pressing, she’s dating Matt. Fully committed, even. Peter has to know this isn’t—

Ah. Well. Now this is starting to make sense.

Of course Peter is aware of how, uh, futile the gesture is. He’s a genius, and even if sometimes she thinks he’s lacking in the common sense department, he knows enough to understand that nothing is ever going to happen with his. Crush. Or whatever this is. But she remembers wanting to _make_ something happen with an unattainable crush (and what a fucking trip it is to be on the other side of things now), or to just. Make a last ditch effort so you can get the fuck over it, finally, and stop torturing yourself with it.

Michaela’s lucky her fingers tighten around the handle of her mug when they spasm, because otherwise she’d have shattered novelty ceramic and scalding coffee all over her kitchen floor. And, also, her bare feet.

She tries to speak and her voice catches in her throat, only a croaky squeak making it out. She clears her throat, swiping a hand over her face – and not even to hide the splotchy blush she’s sporting, no, that ship has most definitely sailed. She just needs to, to fake a bit of composure. Or something.

“Okay,” she says, conjuring up the smile that makes her look like she’s just been brained by a shovel the least, “that is, bar none, the most adorable way someone has ever asked me to a dance.” Not that she actually got asked to many dances; High School Michaela wasn’t the _take-to-prom_ type, exactly – she was more the _girl-you-fucked-after-prom-when-your-girlfriend-slash-boyfriend-slash-partner-didn’t-want-to-put-out_ type. Ugh. She hates thinking about that point in her life, she really does. How naïve she’d been, desperate to be _normal_ to the point where she took the whole sex thing to ridiculous extremes. Frankly, it’s a miracle she escaped high school without an STD, considering how often she fucking forgot to ask her partner to use protection.

Anyway.

She appreciates the gesture wholeheartedly, despite the minor heart-attack it caused her.

Peter’s looking at her, at least, that’s good. His eyes keep darting to the paper in her hands, the glittery tiara he’s clutching like a lifeline, but he meets her eyes every couple of a seconds, and she tries to hold his gaze the next time it comes around, widening her smile a fraction and consciously softening her features. She’s always been friendly with Peter and it doesn’t take much effort to draw out her natural inclination to treat him with as much care as she can reliably muster.

Before she can second-guess herself, Michaela sets aside her mug and plucks the tiara from Peter’s unresisting hands. She turns it over, her grin dopey as hell (she’s got an instinct for these kinda things) as she counts the multi-colored stones, a rainbow of hues against the dull gleam of silver-painted plastic. She wouldn’t put it past Peter to have glued on the damn rhinestones himself – he’s weirdly detail-oriented, she’s noticed, likes to handle projects himself as much as he can, with whatever resources he has on hand. It’s cute.

“You have a pen on you, kid?”  
Peter jumps, startled, and starts patting himself down, muttering under his breath. She watches him for a moment, tempted to laugh but knowing it would only bring back the god-awful tension they just got rid of. Instead, while he frantically searches for a pen in the pockets of his suit, she pulls out the drawer closest to her and digs around until she curls her fingers around a broken pencil. It’s the bit with the point, so score. Nudging the drawer closed with her hip, she checks off _yes_ on the half-crumpled note and presents it to Peter, who abruptly locks up so fast she’s pretty sure she hears his joints groaning in protest.

“It’s a yes, just so you know,” she says, grinning, as he opens the paper back up.

The way he’s beaming at her, Christ, it’s like she just agreed to donate her kidney to him or something, not like she – you know, agreed to go to a cheesy high school dance with him. Something warm and bright unfurls in her chest at the sight, though, a little too emphatic for simple fondness. She loves this crazy-ass Spider-Kid, she really does. Not the way he might want her to, but. She loves him. This really is the least she could do for all the times he’s knocked her right out of a depressive funk just by texting her the latest nonsensical memes.

He looks like he’s gearing up to stutter his way through a heartfelt (and completely unnecessary) thank you, so she shakes her head a little, waves him off. His mouth shuts with a _click_ but he’s still smiling, sunshine bright, his face flushed but clearly pretty fucking happy about how this all went down.

And she’s happy he’s happy. Happy she didn’t fuck this up to an irreparable degree. Happy they both got through this exchange without bursting into flames, lit up by the sheer force of their combined embarrassment. It’s weird, she’s not gonna deny that – but when was the last time she considered her life normal? Did she ever?

Michaela’s careful as she twirls the tiara between her fingers, nodding pointedly at the microwave clock. “If you’re late to school, I might just reconsider my answer.”

And that—

Well.

That gets Peter _moving_.

He surprises her (again, somehow, like she’s not at her shock limit already) by throwing his arms around her in a barely-there hug before he’s running for the open window, calling out a chirpy goodbye as he ducks out. She hears the tell-tale _thwip_ of his web-shooters and knows it won’t be worth the effort to follow him to the window and yell at him for the theatrics; he’s probably halfway back to Queens by now. So, she settles for snorting a laugh to herself and eyeing the tiara some more.

It’s definitely… sweet.

Michaela’s twenty-minutes into her apparently-not-so-worthwhile attempt to fall back asleep on the couch when her mind deems it the perfect time to remind her that _Matt exists_ and that _she’ll have to explain this fuckery to him at some point_.

She screams. A lot. Most of it gets muffled into the cushions she presses her face into, but enough leaks out that she has her upstairs neighbor stomping on the floor and threatening to call—

Huh. Not the cops, which isn’t exact strange given the dubious habits of the apartment complex’s residents. But, uh. Threatening to call _Daredevil_? That’s a new one for her.

And stupidly ill-timed.

Michaela just makes sure she lets out the next shriek directly into the couch cushion.

________________________________________________

“Matty, I’m gonna need for you to promise me something.”

“Those words, combined with the fact that your heartbeat just picked up, means I am not going to like what you’re about to tell me. But tell me anyway.”

“ _Matty_ , my heart’s freaking out because _I_ am on the verge of freaking out! Cut me some slack, please.”

“I gathered that, Michaela. I’m being serious. What do you need me to promise?”

“That you, uh. Won’t get mad? Or go all macho caveman on me?”

“Macho—I mean, of course I promise not to get mad, but when have I ever gone _caveman_ on you?”

“You… haven’t? Okay, sorry, that’s a reflex, I trust you not to like, yell and grunt and wave your fists at me.”

“…I want to go back to the thing where you apparently dated literal gorillas in the past, but before that, please tell me whatever it is that has you practically vibrating with anxiety right now.”

“Don’t get mad.”

“Alright, I can do that. Cross my good boy Catholic heart and everything.”

“Right. Right, okay, that’s great. Um. So. _Peter_.”

“The kid? Did something happen?”

“You could say that, yeah. He—”

“Is he hurt? Are _you_ hurt?”

“What? No, fuck, neither of us are hurt, or in danger, or in danger of _being in danger_. Physically everyone is peachy.”

“You emphasized physically, and I don’t like that.”

“That – is fair, honestly. Very fair. Let me just— _Peteraskedmetohomecoming_.”

“Oh.”

“Why are you _smirking, you asshole_! I am in crisis! Mid-crisis! This is no time for you and your roguish facial expressions!”

“I’m – _Michaela_ , breathe, alright, just breathe, no one is angry, you can calm down. Relax, _breathe_ , that’s it, just like that—”

“Breathing, I’m breathing, heart’s banging around in my chest and possibly causing internal bruising, but I’m. Breathing. In and out, I got it. In and out.”

“I’m sorry for the… inappropriate reaction, but Michaela. _Michaela_. In all seriousness, what you said? I’m not mad. Not at you, not at Parker. I think it’s cute. You said yes, right?”

“Fuck’s sake, _yes_ , I said yes. I couldn’t deny the kid, he had the puppy dog eyes out in full force – you think it’s cute?”

“Why wouldn’t I? He’s got a crush, and I’ve known about it ever since I met him. I’m surprised he did something about it, that’s true, but I’m not bothered by it. He’s a kid, he’s not a—I won’t say threat, I feel like that’s straying into _caveman_ territory and I’d rather not do that. The point is, I’m not worried about him, and more than that, I trust you. _I love you_. Take him to the dance, Michaela. Have fun with him and his friends. This doesn’t need to be more complicated than that.”

“You are… so level-headed.”

“Lawyer. Comes with the territory. Did you really think I’d go into, I don’t even know, a jealous frenzy?”

“No? Okay, _no_ , not… exactly. I’ve had like. A dozen bad experiences with guys who don’t know when to let things lie, Matty. And I know you and I trust you and _I love you, too_ , but this – what you do for me? Unfamiliar territory. There’s gonna be a hell of a learning curve, unfortunately.”

“I get it, Michaela. Or, I understand the gist of it, at least.”

“That’s more than I’ve had before, Matty, way more. It’s enough.”

“Good. Now let’s back to the important question.”

“Which would be…?”

“What are you wearing to the dance?”

“Oh my _god_ , Matt, that is the last thing on my mind right now.”  
“Which is why I vote we prioritize it. Dress or suit? Does Spider-Kid have a color you’re supposed to match?”

“I don’t – we didn’t exactly plan the whole thing out this morning. He had homeroom to get to and I spent most of the day curled up on the couch with the anxious sweats. I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Well, then that’s decided. We’ve got our agenda for the night.”

“Wait, wait, I was promised a movie—”

“That was before the crisis, Michaela. Text the kid, ask him what he’s wearing, and we’ll go off that.”

“Okay, uh. Sure. Yeah. I can do that. Text the kid, simple.”

“Pretty sure you left your phone in the kitchen, Michaela.”

“Then I will text him _in the kitchen_ , Matty.”  
“Just trying to help. Be a good boyfriend, and all that.”

“Ugh. You’re such a dick.”

“I’d say the roguish good looks make up for that, wouldn’t you?”

“Fuck you, Murdock. You can’t say that when you don’t even fuckin’ know what you look like.”

“Ah, but see, it doesn’t matter what I look like. What matters is that you _like_ how I look. That’s all I need to know.”

“For the love of—he said any color is fine, his suit is black, nothing flashy. He’s. Bringing a corsage? Apparently?”

“And you don’t know how to feel about that, I take it.”

“It’s… nice. Do I get him something?”

“I think you agreeing to go with him is more than enough. But I’d advise against electrocuting anyone. Might put a damper on the evening.”

“I… would resent the implication that I would fry anyone but… yeah. It’s a non-zero chance, what with my anxiety reaching new extremes and also me being in close proximity to those assholes that’ve been bullying the spiderling.”

“Hm, that’s a point I hadn’t considered. Valid, but not enough reason for you to go to jail, unfortunately.”

“I won’t shock anyone, _Jesus_ , have some faith in me, why don’t you.”

“Aw, Michaela, don’t you know? I’m all about _faith_.”

“That’s it, that’s the last straw. This conversation’s over. I’ll get Karen to help me with the dress. Suit. Semi-formal attire.”

“Michaela—”

“No, nope, not happening, Murdock. You had your chance, don’t— _stop laughing you jackass_ , and—fuck you! Do not kiss me right now, nononono, that’s not—”

“Ah, _now_ you’re smiling.”

“I hate that you can feel that, I can’t even call you out on not being able to see it right now.”

“You love me.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I fucking do.”

___________________________

She does end up enlisting Karen’s help in picking out a dress, though she doesn’t really spill the beans on _why_ she needs it. Karen’s amazing, she is, and Michaela would trust her with a lot of embarrassing secrets (she’s dealt with Matt and Foggy all this time, and she’s only told Michaela a handful of bullshit the two of them have heaped on themselves, so she’s got an iron will if Michaela’s ever seen one) but like. How exactly do you explain why you – a bundle of oversensitive nerves masquerading as a twenty-six year-old college student – are going to a dance with a sixteen year old _child_?

Regardless, her choices are pretty limited. She and Karen peruse about three different thrift stores, one of which makes Michaela feel like she got thrown back into the eighties and both amazes and horrifies her. Her price range is literally thirty dollars, so. Makes finding something that she actually likes and won’t make her look like she’s playing dress-up in her grandma’s clothes a tad difficult. Lucky for her, though – Karen is quite possibly the most determined individual Michaela has ever met (smattering of Avengers included), and she vehemently refuses to let Michaela go without the perfect outfit.

All that without even knowing why Michaela needs it. Though, the logical answer is probably that Matt’s taking her somewhere with a slightly better dress-code than either of their apartments. Hm, that wouldn’t even have to be a lie; Michaela could probably talk Matt into going somewhere mildly fancy for a night…

She might have to swallow down her reflexive guilt and let him pay for her, but. Could be a nice evening out for them.

She’ll think on it.

Anyway, the dress. Because it’s a dress in the end, despite how tempted Michaela is to go rifling through the suit jackets. It’s a nice dress, at least. Cute, not overly fancy. Black, long-sleeved, much shorter than she remembers prom-style dresses being. Then again, it’s not prom, and she didn’t spend all that much time looking for a dress herself back in high school. Didn’t even spend time ogling anyone in theirs, either – which, yeah, should’ve been something of a clue as to how little she gave a shit about sex even back in what should have been her horniest years. Fuck, she keeps getting off-track, and this is when her sieve of a brain is mostly functioning properly.

All this to say – Michaela is currently in said black dress, standing in front of the mirror in her shoebox of a bathroom, dragging a brush through her uncooperative curls and wincing on every third stroke. Should she even bother with this? Putting it up would solve like sixty percent of her problems right now. But putting it up without brushing it out might just emphasize the fact that it _isn’t_ brushed—

Michaela hates dressing up. _Hates_ it. She feels like she’s squeezing herself into a half-assed persona, tucking away all the anxiety, the fidgeting, the verbal faux pas, buttoning it all up behind silken fabric and too many layers of tulle. She feels like she needs to be on her guard, like she needs to be ready to defend herself from the world’s scrutiny at any given moment. When she’s herself, casual and looking half-homeless, people don’t look took closely at her; they give her a wide berth, even, let her walk right on by without lifting their eyes from their phones or tablets.

Being Blackout is… different, somehow. That’s a persona, too, but it’s not nearly as ill-fitting for her. It’s more like – more like it’s still _her_ , just. With certain traits a little more amplified than they normally would be. Though, she’ll say this: the Blackout persona has been steadily merging with her actual personality over the past year, and she wouldn’t be surprised if it’s nearly indistinguishable at this point. That’s not ideal, given her reasons for wanting to separate herself from her alter ego, but – fuck, she doesn’t know where this is going.

“Matt,” she hisses, knowing he’ll be keeping an ear out for her. She resists the urge to fling the hairbrush out the door and instead lets it drop into the sink, rattling against the – that’s not porcelain, obviously. Ceramic? Some cheap material, probably, judging by the hollow sound the plastic of the brush makes when it hits it. “Matt, I’m, fuck, you gotta tell me this is gonna be okay.”

She sees him in the mirror first, filling the doorframe and reaching out to touch her shoulder. Breathing out slowly, she turns to face him, lets him pull her close, hands cupping her cheeks. His smile is bright and sure and steady, and she clings to that, the warmth that blooms in her chest at the sight of it.

“Tonight will be fine,” he says, soft, the words just for her. His breath is warm against her nose and cheeks, and she smiles a little, knows he’ll feel it from the lift in her cheeks. “You’ll go with Peter, laugh at him and his friends and their weird dancing” – she laughs, can’t help it, picturing those _Fortnite dances_ or whatever Peter had called them when he sent her a video months back – “maybe slow dance with the kid if you’re up for it. Then you’ll drop him off at home and come back here, where I will be waiting with Thai from down the street and the not-watered down beer you like. Sound good?”

“You’ll enable my drinking habit? Matty, that’s so sweet.”

He dips his head enough that she can see the eye-roll over his glasses, then gentle taps her cheeks. “Your heartbeat’s settled down. Feeling a little better about all this?”

She can’t exactly deny it even if she wanted to, so she says, “You’re too good for me,” which is true, honestly, but not what Matt wanted to hear.

“ _Good for you_ is such a subjective phrase,” he says, shaking his head. He doesn’t let go of her, just smooths his hands down to rub gently over the pulse points on either side of her throat. Why that has a calming effect on her, she’ll never know, but damn if it doesn’t do the trick almost every time. “I know there are dangerously unhealthy relationships, and obviously someone like that isn’t _good for you_ , but – you make me happy, Michaela. That’s enough, that’s _more_ than enough. I couldn’t ask you for more than that.”

Fuck.

“ _Fuck_ , Murdock, you’re going to make me cry,” she says, except she suddenly can’t get enough air and the words are barely a whisper, barely audible beyond the thudding of her heart, so, _so_ different from the erratic pace of her anxiety from just a few minutes ago. Fuck, she’s wearing mascara for once, this is not the time for the waterworks! “Goddamn, Foggy was right, you are sappy.”

Michaela blindly grabs for a washcloth, dabs carefully at the tears she can feel caught on her lashes. The washcloth will still but what the fuck does that matter? He’s laughing under his breath and she hates him for it, loves the hell out of him for it.

“Dick,” she says, choked up and brittle, just _brimming_ with the kind of half-hysterical joy she remembers from that first night she kissed him. “You know it’s the same for me, right? You make me so, so damn happy. I just—”

“Ah,” Matt says, grinning, as he raises a hand to stop her. “I’ve heard enough. Besides, Spider-Child is just about to—”

The buzz of the intercom startles Michaela despite Matt’s attempt at a warning. Shit. Not that she isn’t happy to see Peter, she’s always happy to be around the kid, but—she and Matt get so few _moments_ like these. Which is at least eighty percent her fault. She loves him, she lets him know that fairly frequently, but they don’t _talk_ about it, not really. About what they mean to each other, about _why_ they mean so much to each other. And it would probably ease the sting of her many, many insecurities if they did so.

She’ll work on that. Starting right after she goes to her very first high school dance.

God, she’s pathetic.

Grabbing Matt by the shoulders, she leans up on her toes for a quick kiss, fucking ecstatic about the feeling of his lips curving up against hers. He lets her go when she drops back down, stepping aside to let her past him, though he trails her to the door, leaning casually against the wall while she greets Peter and buzzes him into the building.

He’s—it’s not _staring_ , obviously, but she can tell, sort of, that he’s very attuned to her right now. Fidgeting a little with the hem of her dress, she glances over her shoulder at him. He’s smiling, still, and that’s good – but she’s concerned about the slant of his brows, the uneven curl of his mouth. That’s a _Daredevil_ smirk, fuck, he’s totally up to something and she doesn’t have _time_ for this—

She whips around at the knock on her door. Fucking _hell_.

Alright, fine. What’s the worst that could happen?

…she shouldn’t answer her own questions. That way lies madness and she’s got precious little sanity left at this point.

“Hey, Peter,” she says, her smile easier than it maybe should be, given her apprehension. But she’s glad for the sincerity, because Peter looks about ten shades of panicked the moment he gets a good look at her, going about red as the Black Widow’s hair in point-two seconds. She’d whistle, oddly in awe of his reaction time, but that’s way too inappropriate for the already tense atmosphere filling her apartment. “Ready to go?”

He just bobs his head. Opens his mouth, just as quickly snaps it shut again. The _clack_ of his teeth is audible and she checks a wince, holding tight to her smile because one of them has to be the mature adult here, and it’s sure as hell not going to be the teenager in the room. Peter looks down, seems to realize he’s holding a—that’s a corsage, right? She barely gets the chance to confirm her guess when he’s shoving it into her hands, retracting his own so quickly she has to scramble to get a grip on the plastic box. Fuck condensation, she nearly drops the damn thing twice before she’s got a handle on it, and now they’re both blushing like idiots and _Matt is still smirking in the background_.

“Um.” Michaela needs words and she needs them now. “Thanks?”

Smooth. Well, one thing’s for sure – High School Michaela would quite literally never recognize the person she’s become all these years later.

“You’re welcome! It’s, they’re—Aunt May picked them out, or, um, well, she kinda pointed them out to me but she doesn’t know I’m going with you, _obviously_ , she never would’ve let me ask you—not that she wouldn’t like you! She’d love you! Uh, oh, I mean, not _love_ , that’s, that’s a lot, but she’d totally like you, Michaela, like, who wouldn’t? You’re awesome! And pretty! I, uh, I said that before, but I really—”

“Kid,” Matt cuts in, and Michaela’s hackles are up with that one word, because she knows that voice, _she knows it_ , that is Matt Murdock’s patented _I’m-going-to-be-a-little-shit-and-still-somehow-come-off-as-a-choir-boy_ voice, and oh no—“Are you hitting on my girlfriend?”

Peter flushes to the roots of his hair, gaping, looking like Matt actually punched him in the solar plexus rather than ask him a dumbass question. “ _No_ ,” he breathes out, sounding scandalized. “Ohmy _god_ , no! Mr. Daredevil, sir, uh, that’s not, I would _never_ —”

Matt cocks his head, his easy-going demeanor artfully hidden beneath the very convincing look of Judgment he’s wearing now. “In front of me, too,” he says, shaking his head, radiating disappointment like an ultra-conservative dad who just found out his son would rather get into ballet than baseball. “That’s pretty shameless. Almost _criminal_.”

“ _Matt_.” Michaela swats at his arm, scowling when all he does is chuckle at her efforts. He’s having fun and that’s _grand_ , but he might literally kill Peter at this rate and Michaela does not want to have to explain to the kid’s aunt why he checked out in the middle of her apartment. “Will you kindly _shut the hell up_?”

He cocks a brow, resting a hand on his heart in mock indignation. Like she’s the one being ridiculous. Right. “Sweetheart,” he says, and what the _fuck_ , he’s never called her anything like that even once since they started dating. “Baby” – okay, that’s worse – “what are you saying? I’m only making an observation. And as your _boyfriend_ —”

“Don’t fight!” Peter squeaks, raking his hands through his hair and probably ruining whatever attempts he made at styling it for tonight. “Oh, oh god, don’t fight because of me!”

“We’re not—Peter, we’re not fighting, dammit, Matt’s just—”

“Your _boyfriend_ is just concerned, Michaela,” Matt finishes, and he’s frowning but his lips are twitching and she is going to kill him when she gets back, she swears—“Aren’t I allowed that? I don’t know that I really like you going out with other men.”  
“It’s _Peter_ ,” and yeah, sure, she could’ve worded that a little better, it’s not like she’s trying to belittle the kid. He’s cute, he is, but again, he’s _sixteen_ , and Michaela’s seen him more as the little brother she never particularly wanted but nonetheless adores than anything else. “It’s – will you just, you know, try not to traumatize him?”

Matt hums, noncommittal. “You sure? I wouldn’t want him getting any ideas…”

“I have no ideas, Mr. Daredevil! None!”

“Peter, calm down, I’m begging you,” Michaela sighs. “Matt’s—I don’t even have a decent explanation for Matt, except to say he’s an asshole. A charming asshole with a guilt complex that rivals mine.” She shoots him a pointed look, assured he’ll get the gist of it from the rest of her physical cues, and right on time, his frown dissolves into a blinding smile. She’s vaguely aware of Peter stuttering incoherently behind her, but she directs the bulk of her attention to Matt. “And he’s going to be _super fucking sorry_ about this later, isn’t he?”

Pausing, she twists to look at Peter and adds, “Don’t repeat what I just said.”

He blinks at her, eyes wide, face flaming. She sighs and decides that’s good enough for the moment.

“Mm, that’s likely,” Matt agrees, all soft edges and beguiling charm once again. “I’ll make sure to grab that gelato you hate treating yourself to for dessert.”

If Matt’s threatening façade didn’t straight-up murder Peter Parker, the one-eighty he’s pulled might just do the trick.

“You’re going to bribe me into forgetting about this?”

“I wouldn’t call it bribery. Coercion, maybe, that’s fitting. Besides, you know I’ll make it up to Peter. I’m – what did you say to Foggy? I’m a little shit, but I’m not actually a devil.”

“Jury’s out on that one, Mr. Lawyer,” Michaela mutters. But who’s the real idiot here? Because Michaela still moves to kiss his cheek before she catches Peter’s hand and starts tugging him back towards the stairs. She’d go for the elevator if she were by herself, but that thing hasn’t been reliably functional since last February, and if Peter’s survived this long she isn’t going to be the one who gets him killed by the mechanics of her shitty complex.

Before they’re even on the landing of the next floor, she hears Matt call down, “Dance with her for me, Parker! Don’t let her sulk in the corner all night!”  
Peter doesn’t respond, but she doubts he’s capable of that sort of motor skill manipulation at the moment, so she just shakes her head and urges him down the steps. She doesn’t know how she’s going to get Matt back for this, but. It’ll come to her eventually.

As long as they both survive the dance, at least.

___________________

Parker steps on her toes. Not enough to bruise or anything, but it’s more than once. She figures that’s just rounding out the high school dance experience, though, so she just grins at him when he stammers through his fourth (or eighth, but who’s counting?) apology of the night.

Ned’s delightful. He evidently didn’t believe Peter when he said he had a date for the dance, so Ned’s jaw literally drops when Michaela (after sneaking in through a back entrance, because let’s be real, a twenty-six year-old would not have been allowed into this building tonight) introduces herself. It takes a good fifteen minutes for the shock to subside, but when it does, Ned’s all smiles and laughter, and he is apparently the foremost expert on all things embarrassing when it comes to Peter, which results in a few hilarious stories and one hilarious attempt from Peter to tackle Ned to the ground.

Michelle – or MJ, Peter and Ned don’t appear to be in agreement about this – causes the only real hitch for the evening.

Michaela’s nervous and it’s obvious to anyone who bothers to look twice at her, which isn’t often, thank god. But then there’s Michelle – who only comes over to talk with the three of them after Peter nearly upends the punch bowl in his haste to get something for Michaela (she regrets asking immediately, like, it’s honestly seconds before she wants to shove the words back down her throat). Michelle stares. Unabashedly, at that. She pins Michaela with a look that has her heart ricocheting around her rib cage, all the while calmly sipping from her cup, which decidedly does not have the vibrantly red punch in it. Michaela would ask, but, uh. She doesn’t really want to know, and more than that, Michelle is, to put it mildly, terrifying.

Michaela’s more than ready to ignore the staring and the clear judgement she’s projecting, because she’s not going to start something when Peter is _rightthere_ and he’s _beaming_. Except. Michelle is not on the same wavelength.

The first time she opens her mouth, beyond when she said hi to Peter and Ned, is to say: “So, you’re twenty-six, and you like hanging out at high school dances. What are you, a pervert?”

Michaela chokes on the punch Peter rushed to get her, and fucking _hell_ is she grateful she went for the black dress.

“Michelle!” Peter gasps, while Ned goes wide-eyed, looking between the two girls – women, whatever – with more than a hint of interest. At least no one else is in within earshot (there’s a suspiciously wide circle of space surrounding these three and Michaela would be all about getting to the bottom of _that_ if she hadn’t just felt her soul up and leave her body).

“I’m not—” Michaela clutches at her throat, knowing she’s beet-red and hoping to whatever deity might be out there that it’s hidden under the pulsing lights. She coughs once to clear her throat, then does it again just to get a second to sort out her scrambled thoughts. “I have an appropriately-aged boyfriend—”

“What’s _appropriately-aged_? Seventeen? Eighteen?”

“He’s” – fuck her life, it takes her a second to beat back the panic and remember how old Matt is, fuck, _fuck_ , they had his birthday a few months ago – “he’s thirty!”

“So, what is this? A kink? Do you guys get off on cheating on each other?”

Michaela opens her mouth – to say what? How does she even respond to that? Is Michelle serious? Are these serious questions she’s asking? Fuck, Michaela did not prepare herself to be grilled like this.

“You know what? Anything I say is just going to make this worse, so.” Michaela shrugs, lifts her cup a little like a toast. “Let’s start over: I’m Michaela King. Twenty-six, graphic design student at Pratt. I’m a family friend of Peters, and this is me doing him a favor.” She pauses. “I’m sorry if this is making you uncomfortable, you’ve made me _super_ uncomfortable, so rest assured, the feeling’s mutual.”

And that’s when Michelle cracks a smile. “I’m messing with you. Parker’s dumb, but he’s not _that_ dumb. I just live to get entertaining reactions out of people.”

“Well,” Michaela says, dumb struck, dutifully ignoring the annoyed huff Peter lets out at the _not that dumb_ comment. “Um. Okay, then. That’s… good. I think. We’re good?”

“As long as you’re not actually a pedophile, yeah, we’re good.”

…and from there, things aren’t terrible.

Michaela would be lying if she said she isn’t fucking ecstatic when Peter and his friends decide to call it a night, though.

They go their separate ways, seeing as Michaela is not ready to possibly meet Aunt May and have to explain why the fuck she took her nephew to the dance, and Peter (who definitely abuses his powers to cut down on travel time) texts her once he’s home safe. She does the same as soon as she’s closed the door behind herself, though it comes after she’s slid down to the floor and dropped her head back against the door, groaning quietly to herself.

Michaela used to be a people person. Or, at least, she used to be good at faking it. Now, she’s lucky if she can survive a shift at work without having a meltdown of some kind.

God, she needs that therapy.

But thank fuck for Matthew Michael Murdock.

“You’re back later than I expected,” he says, crouched down so that he’s not towering over where she’s sitting on the goddamn floor. “Have a good time?”

“I got accused of being a pedophile. Aside from that, though…”

“Do I even want to ask?”

“No. No, you do not. For my sanity, if nothing else, _please_ don’t ask.”

“Alright, I can do that.” Matt smiles and cocks his head. “You want a lift to the couch? You look like you need it.”

Michaela makes a face but she doesn’t have the energy to really deny it – hence the accuracy of the statement. Still. “Matt, that’s a little…”

“Michaela, Daredevil has gone through a lot worse than carrying you ten feet to the couch. Let me take care of you.”

And, well, how does she say no to that?

All in all, not the worst night she’s ever had. She’s not sure that’s really saying much, but when she snuggles in next to Matt on the couch and inhales a takeout container of Thai food, she’d say she’s pretty content regardless.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh dear lord this ended up being much longer than I originally planned. Please, if anyone takes issue with this story or is made uncomfortable by it, let me know? I really, really did not intend for it to be creepy in any way. I just couldn't get this idea out of my head and Peter definitely has a crush on Michaela, that's just how it worked out.


End file.
